


Blessed Be

by Sanguineheroine



Category: Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanguineheroine/pseuds/Sanguineheroine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sentimental seasonal slash with a traditional bent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blessed Be

“Watson?”

“Hmm?” I replied a little dreamily, without looking back from the window. A fierce storm blew through the city, flinging snow and sleet against the panes. The cobbles were clean and white, and the high narrow fronts of Baker Street mere silver shadows lurking behind the golden glow of the street lamps.

Holmes was at the table, having been absent for most of the afternoon and evening. Upon arriving home I had directed him to the table with barely a word and betaken myself to the window seat until such time as I could forgive him for missing supper with no word of apology or explanation.

“I find myself at the centre of some intrigue. May I presume upon your attention for a moment?”

I relented, admittedly curious as to what concern had kept my friend from our Christmas repast and the comfort of our hearth on such a wild night. I drew the curtains and made my way over to where Holmes sat stooped over his plate with his pocket glass out.

He had dissected his plum pudding neatly and was examining it piece by piece under the glass, crumbling it with a fork as he went.

“Intrigue, Holmes? Upon Christmas Eve? “I sat beside him and waited patiently for him to spin his tale.

“My very word it is” Holmes began, looking up from his plate “and in my own home, no less!” With this, he leapt up from the table and began to pace. With a sudden cry he swooped down upon his abandoned dish and seized up something from it between his thumb and forefinger. He held the object up to the light for a long moment.

“You see, Watson” he cried, dropping the tiny artefact into my palm “she plans to murder me!”

“She?” I asked, puzzled “ _She_ who?”

“The snake who would betray my trust!” He sprung away from me and resumed pacing the rug, eyes flashing. “That very bastion of our home and hearth, working from within for some secret purpose. Who knows how long this might have been anticipated and planned for!”

“ _Who_ , Holmes?” I had forgotten about both the evidence and my cigarette, and the ash was falling to the floor unnoticed.

“Mrs Hudson!” Holmes thundered, turning to me with bright eyes and a livid fever flush.

“Mrs Hudson? Holmes, are you sure?” It was not in my nature to question him, when I knew his strength and his wit but it seemed a little farfetched to me to imagine murderous intrigue in our own rooms.

“In your hand you hold the instrument of my undoing. Go on, Watson” he tapped lightly on the inside of my wrist, encouraging me to open my hand “tell me what you see.”

I unfolded my fingers and lying on my palm was an anchor wrought of silver. It glinted in the light as brightly now as it had done months ago on the velvet in the window of the jeweller’s where I had first laid eyes on it.

“What would happen to a man, Watson, if he were to swallow that down and it were to become lodged in his throat?” Holmes asked, thoroughly immersed in his familiar role of investigator.

“I have no doubt that a man who was unlucky enough to swallow this may find himself asphyxiating.”

Holmes nodded in that particularly satisfied way that he saved for the confirmation of his deductions. He opened his mouth, possibly to question me further but I rushed to continue.

“I also have no doubt that any man who did not chew his food sufficiently to detect this prior to swallowing is gluttonous in the extreme and bound for a bad end no matter whether he strangles on silver or a mutton joint. Anyone who has seen you at your board would choose a more suitable method of execution.”

“This” and here I handed him the charm “is not a murder plot by our landlady. It is an attempt by your friend to bestow a blessing upon you.”

Holmes’s brows drew together and he sat down abruptly upon the end of the settee. Leaning in to the lamp he once again got out his pocket glass and re-examined the source of his consternation.

“A blessing?” He looked straight at me and narrowed his eyes as if I were a blood stain or a particularly puzzling sample of ash “Watson, I-”

“An anchor found in the pudding is said to grant the finder safe harbour for the coming year. It occurs to me that in the life we lead, safe harbour is all too rare and if I can help you to find it then I will. That is the duty and pleasure of a friend.”

I took Holmes’s hand then, and curled his thin fingers in over the silver. He laid his other hand over mine and we sat like that for long minutes.

Far away through the storm, the cathedral bells rang out midnight. Presently, Holmes released my hand and went to the sideboard to pour a brandy. It was not until he had placed a warmed glass into my hands that he spoke again.

“I am not a religious man, Watson, but whatever blessing a heretic such as I can bestow are yours.” With that he drew me into a kiss, and believe me readers that there was never such a sweet benediction offered by any man of God.

“My dear fellow,” I whispered when we finally parted “I am already blessed, and nothing more is required.”


End file.
